Authors: Tori Phillips
“A pleasant evening to you, my lord magistrate, and sweet dreams attend you—if you can sleep with my cousin’s blood on your conscience. Trust me when I say that Tonia is the most virtuous lady in the land. If she is dead, then you and I will meet again to discuss your…cowardice.”
Satisfied that he had given Whalley an uncomfortable bone to gnaw with his supper, Kitt hurried after the other two.
The Cavendishes easily found good lodging near the Minster, York’s great cathedral. As the season was Lent, no fairs or feast days filled the city. Guy spoke little during their light supper. Afterward he went immediately to bed. At the foot of the stairs to the inn’s upper gallery, Kitt pulled Francis aside.
“Stay
close to your father this night for his heart is sore wounded and methinks he might do some damage, either to his bedding or to himself.”
Francis gave his cousin a searching look. “And where do you roam at this hour?”
Kitt chuckled without mirth. “Among the gutters and riffraff of the city.” He slipped off the three heavy gold rings that he always wore and gave them to Francis. “Keep these for me until I return.”
Francis studied Kitt’s face for a long moment before he said, “I wonder how you can think of pleasuring yourself when we are on such a doleful errand.”
Kitt clapped Francis on the shoulder. “’Tis not pleasure I seek, but information. I may be gone awhile,” he added, as he turned toward the door. “Do not wait up for me and on no account tell Uncle Guy where I have gone.”
Francis gave his young cousin a two-fingered archer’s salute. “How can I tell him where you are when I do not know myself? May Saint Michael ride on your shoulder this night,” he added, invoking the family’s patron saint.
Kitt grinned. “Mayhap he will bring me luck with the dice as well as some useful news.”
Wrapping his plain cloak around him against the evening’s chill air, Kitt stepped into the street. The bells of Saint Michael-le-Belfrey chimed half-past nine o’clock as the young man hurried toward the less savory part of York. Only a few people were abroad at this hour. From a passing rat catcher, Kitt got directions to an inn near the Stonegate where the city’s men-at-arms usually took their ease. Ye Olde Starr proved to be a noisy, smoky den, filled with soldiers on a carouse. Kitt ordered a pint of the local brew, then chose a table shared by a foursome who were already well into their cups.
After
winning Kitt’s small change in several dice games, the soldiers were more than happy to share the city’s latest gossip. Kitt nursed his ale while he listened to several tales of drunken wool merchants from Flanders and the latest escapades of a toothsome whore named Jenny, then the young man steered the conversation toward trials and executions.
“Oh, aye,” burped one heavyset man. “There was a story I heard some days ago about a woman condemned for being a Roman nun.”
Kitt gripped his jack mug though he kept his facial expression carefree. “A woman, eh? Did they burn her at the stake? Haint never seen the like of that.”
With a hiccup, the soldier shook his head. Then he signaled the tap boy to refresh his mug while he continued his tale. “Nay, more’s the pity, for I hear the wench was a looker.”
Kitt leaned forward. “So what did they do with this piece of sweetmeat? Mayhap she would like someone to…ah…comfort her.” Elbowing the nearest soldier, he gave him a wink.
The first man shrugged. “No chance o’ that. The King’s soldiers popped her into a coach and drove her away. ’Twas a week or ten days past. Lucky bastards!” he added to his companions. “Most likely they had their way with her afore the executioner got her. I know I would!”
Kitt’s fury at their slurs almost choked him. He drank down half his ale before he felt sufficiently calm enough to continue his questioning. “And so they cheated the good citizens of York out of a fine burning.” He shook his head, pretending to be sorry to have missed such a grisly spectacle. “Any idea where they took her? Where was the lucky village to have a pretty wench to burn?”
One of
the other guards spoke up. “I heard tell they took her into the mountains.”
A third man nodded in agreement. “Aye, now I remember! The coach came back two days later. I was on duty at the Monkgate and waved him through.”
Kitt could barely contain his excitement. “Did the driver say where he had been?”
“Aye, I asked him that selfsame question for I had seen the woman and was interested. The driver said that he drove them as far as Harewold. ’Tis a wee village at the end of a cleft in the mountains. The driver told me that they had no more need of the coach for the rest of the way was too steep. They put the wench on the back of one of their horses. The driver heard them say they were going higher to somewhere called Eaglesnest or Hawksnest. Some such bird.” He scratched his greasy hair. “The King’s men ne’er came back here again.”
Kitt couldn’t understand why Tonia had been taken to such a remote place to await execution. He prayed that the soldier’s memory was not too addled by his drink. “So she still lives?”
“Nay,” snorted the first speaker. “’Tis been a week and more. That headsman from London surely has come and gone, and there’s an end to it. Pity, for she were a sweet piece.”
Kitt refused to believe that his cousin was already dead. They had been as close as brother and sister in their youth. He would have felt the void in the very marrow of his bones if she were truly gone.
Hold
fast, Tonia! We are coming for you!
W
hen Tonia opened her eyes on the following morning, she found that the sun dawned as clear and as bright as the day before. Though the wind still blew through her arrow slit, the cool air carried a hint of the coming spring. Closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, Tonia could almost smell the earth being plowed for the planting and the scent of delicate blossoms decking the trees in the warmer valleys below her eyrie.
When the
Gypsy opened her door, he caught her singing for the pure joy of the new day. Her song died in her throat when she saw him.
“Good morrow.” Tonia gave him a shy smile. “’Tis a good day to be alive, is it not?” Though the man did not return her smile, at least he did not have that gruesome mask over his face.
He averted his gaze and looked instead at the cooling embers in the fireplace when she mentioned being alive. A muscle twitched along his jawline. “You have a good voice,” he finally said.
Tonia released the breath she had been holding. “My thanks for your compliment. Both my parents are very musical.” A small lump rose in her throat when she thought of her mother and father. Tonia swallowed with difficulty. She must maintain her cheerful demeanor if she hoped to persuade him to let her live yet another night. She knew that a weeping woman could drive a man’s patience over the brink.
“I
have brought you some water…to bathe…ah…your face and other things.”
Before Tonia could express her surprised gratitude, he spun on his heel, stepped into the corridor and returned with a mossy oaken bucket slopping at the brim with water. He set it before the hearth. “’Tis cold but clean,” he told her, though he still did not meet her gaze. “When you are finished, please join me at the table by my fire. There is some cheese left. No bread.” He ran his hand through his thick brown-black hair.
Tonia stared at the bucket, hardly daring to believe her good fortune. “Does this mean that you do not plan to kill me today?” she whispered.
He glanced at her briefly before looking down to the floor. “Your grave is not deep enough,” he mumbled. Then he turned away and headed toward the door. “I will leave you to wash.” He practically fled from her presence.
Tonia knelt down beside the bucket and rolled up the sleeves of her gown. Though the water was icy, it felt wonderful to bathe her face for the first time in over a week. Her other guards had been miserly in their care of her while they waited for the executioner. As she washed her ears, neck and hands, Tonia daydreamed of a tub full of hot water and a cake of her mother’s rose-scented soap from Paris. She would have loved to wash her hair, though she knew that if she gave into the temptation at this chilly time of year, she might die from fever and a cough before the Gypsy ever got around to strangling her.
The memory
of the garrote made her shudder. At least that dreadful cord had not been hanging from the man’s belt. After rinsing out her mouth and combing her hair as best she could with her fingers, Tonia poured the dirty water down the privy hole that was sunk in the wall at the far corner of her cell. Then, carrying the bucket by its stout rope handle, she ventured down the corridor to the guardroom. She considered it a good omen that her executioner had given her this much freedom of movement. When she turned the corner, the Gypsy rose from the bench.
He studied her face with an inscrutable look for an extra heartbeat, then his gaze softened a fraction. “I see that the water pleased you.”
Tonia put the bucket down on the hearth and warmed her still damp hands at his fire. “Aye, Master of the Morn, ’twas as sweet as swimming in damask roses.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You can swim?” She laughed at his surprise. “Aye, my cousin Kitt taught me—after he had pitched me into the cow pond and discovered that I could not.”
A shadow of annoyance crossed the man’s face. “Your cousin sounds much ill-mannered.”
With a smile, Tonia shook her head. “Nay, Kitt is only full of high spirits,” she replied with fondness.
“You like this cousin?” he asked with a certain coolness. “Were you betrothed to him?”
His question startled her. “Me marry Kitt?” She laughed at the very notion. “Nay, we are too close in blood. He was my playfellow and best friend for many years—but marry Kitt? Hoy day! I pity the poor woman who will wed him. He will lead her a merry chase. What made you think I would marry my cousin?” She sat down near him.
He pushed
the cheese closer to her. “’Tis the custom among the Rom to marry within the extended family. I married my father’s cousin’s daughter when she was thirteen.”
Tonia stared at him for a moment. She had not given a thought that he might be married. It seemed unlikely for an executioner to be a family man. Now that she had learned he was, she felt a twinge of disappointment—and a hot spurt of jealousy. She gave herself a shake. Why should his wife matter to her?
“Thirteen is young to be married,” Tonia remarked. She bit into the hard cheese.
He gave her a wry grin. “I was sixteen and considered myself fully a man. I have since learned that there is a great deal more to marriage than bedding a bride.”
Tonia felt a blush creep up her neck and into her face. She hoped that he did not notice her change of color. She tried not to think of him in bed…naked with those wonderful broad shoulders…and those slim hips…and those long legs…kissing his bride…holding her close to his bare chest…. Tonia choked on her cheese.
He thumped her on the back several times. “Tonia?”
Swallowing, she held up her hand. “Hold! I am recovered.” She flashed him a quick sidelong glance. “You could have let the cheese do your work for you, you know.”
Pursing
his lips, he stared up at the low-vaulted ceiling. “You must think me a true villain.”
Tonia admired his profile for a moment, musing how noble he would look if he were dressed in a fine shirt of cambric and a doublet of velvet. As he was, his gold earring gave him a certain raffish appearance that she found very attractive. She stifled a sigh of desire. He’s a married man, she reminded herself.
“Do you have many children?” Tonia asked in an offhand manner.
He puffed out his cheeks. “Nay. My wife died in childbirth. She left none for me to remember her.”
Tonia’s sudden elation shocked her. She should never rejoice at the news of someone’s death. “I am sorry for that and for your loss,” she murmured. “What is her name that I may pray for her?”
He gave her a long, cool look before he replied, “’Tis not the custom of my people to speak the names of the dead. ’Tis bad luck.”
“Oh.” Tonia chewed another bit of her cheese while she gathered her courage to broach the real subject that burned in her mind. “Very well. Since we two are still among the living, you can tell me
your
name.”
For once, her question seemed to amuse him. “’Tis important to you?”
“Aye, methinks we have kept company long enough and I am tired of making up titles for you. Surely you can trust me with your name by now. You have already told me your
horse’s
name and I know how precious he is to you.”
The Gypsy considered her request in silence before he finally nodded. “Very well.” Lacing his hands behind his head, he leaned back against the wall. “I was baptized Sandor after Saint Alexander.” The
r
sounds rolled off his tongue.
Intense
astonishment made Tonia forget the last morsel of the cheese she held in her hand. “You were baptized? In a church?”
He nodded and a smug grin crossed his face.
Tonia knotted her brows. “But you are a Gypsy!”
A wide smile replaced his grin, transforming his features into those of an angel. “Even so I was well and truly baptized in a holy church—in seven of them if the truth be told. ’Twas my father’s little bit of
bujo.
”
Tonia gave him an arched look. “Methinks I spy a rat in the larder. What is this
bujo?
”
His lips curled with merriment. “It means…” He rolled his dancing eyes as he searched for the word. “Gypsy work—not hard labor. To coney—catch the
gadje.
”
Tonia gasped at this bold admission. “You hoodwinked some elderly priest while you stole from the poor box?”
Sandor held up his hands. “Nay, ’twas not I! I was but a babe at the time—an innocent party. And my father did not
steal
anything.” He chuckled to himself.
Despite her shock, Tonia found herself smiling back at him. “So how
did
your father trick the priest?”
Sandor swirled the watered wine in his cup. “’Twas the custom in the bishopric of Paris that every new-baptized child should receive a gold ecu from the parish treasury. ’Twas a most generous gift.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “So first I was baptized in Sainte Marguerite’s church, then in Sainte Marie’s church, then at Sacre Coeur, and so forth. Each time the parish priest gave my mother an ecu. At the end of the day, my family had seven ecus in our bag, and I was named seven times over.”
Tonia
glared at him. “’Tis a sacrilege to steal from the church!”
Sandor merely laughed. “How could it be called stealing if the money was freely
given
to us? We did not even have to ask for it. My grandmother always said that you can get more with cunning than with power. That is
bujo.
”
Tonia considered this skewered logic for a moment. “Were you really baptized seven times, or is your story just another tale like the donkey eating the cabbage leaves?”
Sandor raised one hand toward heaven. “Let me die if I lie!”
The talk of dying cast a pall over Tonia’s good spirits. “Methinks I am much closer to death than you are at this moment.”
His expression clouded. Then he pushed himself up from the table. “We burn daylight, my lady.” He picked up the shovel that had been leaning against the wall. “Come. We must give Baxtalo an airing. Methinks he will be glad of your company.”
Tonia popped the last piece of cheese in her mouth then, wrapping her cloak around her, she followed him out into the courtyard. She berated herself for bringing up the distasteful subject and so spoiling his cheerful humor, yet her ultimate fate preyed on her mind. How could such a charming man laugh with her even as he contemplated her murder?
Sandor attacked the cold ground with his shovel, venting his anger on the thick clods of earth that he tossed by the side of the grave. While he dug, he tried to decide what he was going to do about the increasingly desirable Lady Gastonia Cavendish. The time had come for him to be honest with himself. He knew in his heart that he was not going to kill her. He should have admitted that truth from the first moment when he saw her. Even as she curtsied to him, he had been thunderstruck by her beauty and her radiance. Had the lady been a gnarled crone ready for death, perhaps he could have done the deed, but he knew that God would be angry if Sandor snuffed out the life of such a beautiful example of his handiwork.
Pausing
to sip some watered wine from his
bota,
he watched Tonia stroke and pet Baxtalo. Lucky horse! Sandor wished that she would run her fingers through his hair as she did with Baxtalo’s mane. His skin prickled. Sandor mopped his brow with his neckerchief then squinted up at the sun. Time moved forward, one more day that Demeo lay in the Tower.
By his calculation, Sandor realized that he was expected to arrive in London on the morrow or the day after. He was supposed to deliver the small box containing Tonia’s heart to the Constable of the Tower as soon as he reached the city. Only then would Demeo be freed. If Sandor did not appear within the week, he knew that the King’s officials would send soldiers to Hawksnest to investigate. He must be long gone by then. And the lady?
Across the meadow, Tonia sang a lighthearted ballad. Its pleasing notes floated back to Sandor. When she turned to look at him, he grinned and waved to her. Then he returned his attention to the hole that he now stood in. He guessed its depth was three feet and a bit. Not that he intended to use it for its original purpose. Digging it bought him time and occupied his body. Otherwise he might be tempted to seduce the enchanting woman who played with his horse.
Sandor
gripped the handle of the shovel. The devil would punish him for thinking such lustful thoughts. Tonia was dedicated to God, not to be a man’s plaything. Yet what a waste! He glanced again at her. Even dressed in her plain gray gown with no ornamentation save for her wooden cross, she was as beautiful as a May morn. He recalled another one of old Towla’s sayings, “Beauty cannot be eaten with a spoon.” But then again, his grandmother had never laid eyes on Tonia. She was a feast.
She is a
gadji,
Sandor reminded himself. His shovel struck a good-sized rock. He worked the spade around it while his mind examined this problem. All
gadje,
most especially their women, polluted the Rom, or so Sandor had been taught ever since he was old enough to understand the differences between his people and everyone else in the world. Yet Sandor did not feel soiled by his contact with Tonia. On the contrary, she lifted his soul more than he had ever felt with any other. Was there evil in this magic?
He glanced toward the edge of the meadow where he had laid several snares in hopes of catching a wayward rabbit or two. His food store was very low. He had not intended to remain for so long at Hawksnest, nor had he planned to feed the woman who was supposed to be dead by now. This holiday from his responsibilities would come to a jarring end within another day or two. Then what?
Sandor looked over his shoulder at Tonia, but he did not see her. Baxtalo grazed near the stream, but the dark-haired beauty had vanished. Cursing himself under his breath, Sandor dropped the shovel and vaulted out of the hole. He should have guessed that she would make another bid for her freedom. After all, she did not know the truth inside his heart. He ran toward the last spot where he had seen her. The bent and broken grass, dry from the previous summer, showed plainly the direction she had taken. Sandor shaded his eyes as he scanned the edge of the forest. Tonia was clever in many ways, but he didn’t think she realized the dangers that lurked within the tangled undergrowth.